


The Five

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Perpetual Nonesense [3]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Drama, F/M, Mystery, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1888. The world is gathering momentum as invention after invention propel society seemingly ever forward. It is an intriguing age and one Lord Lionel Nevermoor had thought might, perhaps, be a peaceful one. One he could, for a change, quietly enjoy with his fiancée Charlotte Westwater. But in the shadows of London's alleyways and the great halls of Buckingham court alike old enemies are stiring, biding their time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Night to Remember

_“The fairest thing in nature – a flower – still has its roots in earth and manure.”_  
\- D.H. Lawrence

 

“Careful, sweetling.”

Charlotte Westwater voiced a tiny noise of discomfort as she tried to sit up amid the soft pillows. A strong hand immediately supported her back. She glanced up at Lord Lionel Nevermoor, who sat at her bedside, and she attempted to smile at him. “I do not feel so good, my Lord,” she apologised weakly as her hands moved to straighten her nightgown, conscious of the Earl's ever impeccable appearance. The morning light made no secret of her rumpled state.

“It were a trying eve, my dearest,” Lord Nevermoor soothed as he carefully kept his expression plain. He’d had high hopes for that evening; he had wanted it to be the happiest eve of her life. Instead, it had turned into the worst. Charlotte had always possessed a fae beauty, soft and gentle like a summer breeze, but now her fair complexion bordered on plainly pale and dark stains of fatigue unkindly drew attention to the unwelcome dullness that had settled across her blue eyes. Her blonde curls, otherwise so beautiful and well-kempt, tumbled about her thin shoulders in listless disarray. She suddenly appeared so very fragile to him, her delicate built frail and ephemeral.

Charlotte smiled wanly at his assurance and embraced him, her slender arms slipping around his broad chest as she rested her cheek against the tailored silk of his waistcoat. It was only then that she saw the bandages around his left hand. "My Lord!" she exclaimed in shocked tones.

"It's nothing, dearest," Lord Nevermoor shushed. He held her for a time, soothingly brushing his fingers through her hair as his gaze wandered across her bed chamber. It was filled with the accumulated clutter of a young woman that enjoyed plenty a pastime. Books, both ancient and modern, which she had borrowed from his library, laid on surfaces around the chamber; papers and note-taking journals were piled with them. Needlepoint and knitting designs were strewn around the room like autumn leaves across a park, materials for both activities standing in small baskets here, there and everywhere together with art supplies. Her toiletry, cosmetics, perfumes and jewellery had long since spilled from the vanity's accommodating top onto a nearby coffee table. There were garments as well, not yet collected by the servants for laundering. A vest and shawl draped across her modest desk, a jacket hung upon the door handle of her dressing room. He had even spotted an underdress crumpled quite forgotten in a corner!

However, Lord Nevermoor did not remark upon the preposterous state of the chamber, for it was hers alone and beyond her maid servant no one ever saw it. Even he had scarcely set foot in her bed chamber before and he was here now only due to her faint condition and the concerned mentions of Ellis – her maid servant – that Charlotte had called his name in frightful tones during her sleep. In addition, her small, private drawing room where she received her guests had been as immaculate as ever when he had passed through it on his way to her bedchamber.

“Miss?” a woman's voice called, followed by a knock at the door joining Charlotte's bed chamber and drawing room.

Charlotte's eyes widened a fraction at the call and she swiftly let go of Lord Nevermoor. She straightened her nightgown and hastily arranged the sheets in an orderly fashion about her. She was in a woefully improper state but she would do her very best to look her most presentable, even if it was but in front of a servant.

A fond smile curved Lord Nevermoor's lips up at her brief fussing; she was a proper young lady. He rose to stand beside her bed at a more appropriate distance, his hands clasped behind his back. He caught himself just in time from acknowledging the servant, the habit of doing so almost getting the better of him. This was Charlotte's bed chamber and he was as much a guest here as the servant who had come calling.

“Yes!” Charlotte answered a moment later and the servant entered, revealing herself to be Ellis. The mousey young woman held a silver tray in her hands upon which rested a small teapot and a cup.

“My Lord, Miss,” Ellis greeted them with a careful obeisance so to avoid spilling the warm draught. Although she hid her surprise at finding the Lord of the House here expertly, she slipped up her greeting: defaulting to acknowledging him first rather than Charlotte, as would have been appropriate in any other part of the house.

Lord Nevermoor approached the maid and accepted the tray from her with an expression that spelled 'leave us' as clearly as any words would have. Ellis curtsied and swiftly made herself scarce. Lord Nevermoor shifted the tray onto his palm and closed the door behind her. There would undoubtedly be talk among the servants but he would silence that later. He then returned to Charlotte's bedside and sat the tray upon her nightstand before sitting down at the edge of her bed once more. “Here, this will make you feel better,” he remarked as he poured the steaming tea into the cup and proffered it. “Careful, it is very hot yet.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said softly as she accepted the cup with both hands, the delicate porcelain warm to the touch. A slight frown creased Lord Nevermoor's brow when he noticed the way her hands shook. Charlotte took several careful sips before handing it back to him. The moment he had put the cup down upon the tray she reached her arms for him in a quiet request. He leaned back towards her and embraced her as she curled up against his side, resting her head upon his chest.

They sat for a while and when Lord Nevermoor shifted, of a mind to rise and leave Charlotte to her much needed rest, her grip around his waist tightened in response. “Please stay,” she implored, her expression most pitiful.

“If you wish it, sweetling,” he conceded and sat back down, gathering her against him once more.

“I do,” Charlotte muttered against the silk of his waistcoat. She glanced up at him then without lifting her cheek from his chest. “What happened?” she inquired quietly, her blue eyes searching his face for an answer as melancholy settled across his stern features.

“You became unwell on our way home,” Lord Nevermoor answered as he gently brushed a loose curl away from her eyes. “Do you not remember?”

She shook her head slowly before resting her cheek against his chest once more. He could feel her fingers dig into the fabric of his waistcoat and dress shirt as she curled closer. “No.”

He closed his eyes and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, relieved she did not remember.

Lord Nevermoor, on the other hand, recalled the events of the preceding day with eidetic exactness. They had gone horse riding in Hyde Park that afternoon, as they did every other Saturday. While there they had chanced upon Lord Albert Fairdahl and his kind-hearted wife Phillipa who were spending their afternoon in a similar fashion. The four of them rode together for a goodly while; the men speaking of equine bloodlines and breeding stock while the women shared what was undoubtedly the latest gossip, for he distinctly remembered Charlotte’s suppressed giggles coming from behind him. Over lunch Phillipa had spoken passionately of the play 'Faust’ which she had attended with her sister-in-law at the Lyceum Theatre the previous weekend. When Charlotte blushingly admitted she had scarcely even heard of the famous work, the Fairdahls had been mildly shocked. Lord Nevermoor had promptly remedied the little scene by arranging for them to see the play that very evening. He had intended to propose to Charlotte afterwards, but that had not gone as planned.

“The play was wonderful!” Charlotte exclaimed as Lord Nevermoor helped her embark their Landau carriage. It was a fair, clear evening and to allow them to enjoy it to the fullest the front of the carriage had been let down. “It entertained me greatly, my Lord.”

“It gladdens me it did, sweetling,” Lord Nevermoor replied as he climbed in after her and sat down at her side. It had been a lovely night out and Charlotte's enthusiasm was quite contagious. She smiled up at him, an edge of perfect little teeth showing between her curved lips as the light of the gas lanterns they passed set a sparkle to her blue eyes. His own expression was far more contained as he took her hand and lightly pressed a kiss to her gloved fingers, though her delighted blush at his gesture curved the corners of his lips up despite himself.

They sat quietly for a while, enjoying each other's company and the ride home in silence. Charlotte leaned ever so slightly against him, her shoulder only just touching his as she gazed out at St. James Park, a content smile upon her lips. The Lyceum Theatre was not far from their manor upon Grosvenor’s Square and as they turned onto Piccadilly Lord Nevermoor reached for the inside pocket of his jacket. Charlotte turned towards him, for she had undoubtedly noticed his shift. His fingers closed around the small box. Her curious gaze crossed his. And the moment he meant to retrieve it she smiled and spoke.

“May we walk home through Hyde Park, my Lord?” Charlotte asked as she twined her arm through his. “It is such a fair eve.” He held the small box for a moment longer.

“If you wish,” he answered at last and let it slip through his fingers. “But you must not tire yourself.”

“I am not weary, my Lord,” Charlotte assured him.

Lord Nevermoor nodded. Perhaps at the fountain then, she did so love that spot. “Very well,” he said before addressing their driver. “Roy, to Hyde Park if you please.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the coachman replied and adjusted their course.

It was not long before the great arches of Hyde Park's grand entrance came into view. They drove underneath it and onto the neatly tiled square beyond. The coachman halted their carriage near one of the northern paths. Lord Nevermoor helped Charlotte disembark before bidding the coachman home and instructing him to notify Mrs Baker they would arrive within the hour and would have dinner shortly after arrival. Lord Nevermoor offered Charlotte his arm and she accepted it with a smile as they crossed the square towards the northern promenade which led past the floral market before turning into the park. Empty market stalls lined the field beside the cobble path, some bare as skeletons while others were shrouded in tarp as they waited for their owners to return and the market to commence once more.

"Oh, I do so love those," Charlotte exclaimed lightly. She was gazing sideways, across the market field. To Lord Nevermoor's surprise there was still someone cleaning out their stall. The market fellow appeared to be loading bushels of Nile lilies onto a handcart. A mild frown creased his brow at that. Nile lilies were rarely sold in such quantities. A light tug at his arm as Charlotte turned towards the otherwise deserted market field made it obvious she wished to see them up close.

"Dearest, we mustn’t harass the good man this late," Lord Nevermoor said as he put his hand across her arm, holding her put. Charlotte's expression fell; he knew Nile lilies were her favourite. "Come, we can visit on the morrow." Charlotte nodded, though she glanced longingly at the market stall.

As they walked on a man pushing an empty hand cart appeared from the far side of the field. He made his way towards the market fellow and when they met the other halted his work. They briefly exchanged words before looking at the couple disappearing around the bend. Surely they had recognised the wealthy Lord and the dainty young Miss at his arm. Lord Nevermoor was a well-known figure among the upper echelons of London's genteel society and his mildly foreign complexion and meticulously bound but far too long hair made him unmistakable even at a distance.

The winding path towards the fountain was lined with great oaks and bushes that had not yet lost all their pink and purple flowers. The path was only sparsely lit, shrouding it in a green and yellow twilight. It was a brief walk, hardly more than a few minutes, before the marble boy and dolphin appeared from among the greenery. The old fountain stood on a small, circular plaza with low stone benches arranged around it far enough from each other to afford some privacy.

Charlotte arranged her skirts self-consciously as Lord Nevermoor sat down beside her upon the stone bench, his hands folded across the grip of his walking stick.

“It is a beautiful eve, isn't it?” Charlotte said pleasantly as she laid her hands in her lap. She glanced sideways at Lord Nevermoor, who gazed up at the sky as he considered the right moment.

“Indeed, it is,” Lord Nevermoor returned and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. When their gazes crossed she quickly cast hers down, a light blush colouring her fair cheeks pink. A fond smile crept across his thin lips at her modesty. She was such a gentle soul. Perhaps now, he thought as he reached for his jacket.

Charlotte looked up at him then and he smiled and waited, thinking she would speak again. Instead, she leaned up and pressed a light peck upon his lips. It was the most fleeting sensation; he barely felt the soft press or it was gone once more. Lord Nevermoor's eyebrows rose quietly in response. Charlotte's colour deepened instantly and she quickly cast her gaze down in embarrassment, her hands clasped anxiously in her lap.

“Charlotte,” Lord Nevermoor started, but when she hunched her slender shoulders as if bracing for a reprimand, he stopped. He reached for her chin instead and gently turned her to face him.

Charlotte's colour turned positively crimson at that and she smiled shyly as she dodged around his gaze. She wished he would kiss her, kissing sounded so lovely. He had promised they would kiss often when they were engaged, but she wanted it now. Why had he not kissed her back? What if she was not pretty enough? What if he regretted his promise? Did he not lov---

“Charlotte.” His voice interrupted her tumbling thoughts. His eyes were on her still and he shook his head lightly as he cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the highly embarrassed smile along her lips to the corner of her mouth. She dodged his gaze once more. If only the ground would open up about now and swallow her whole!

“Look at me, sweetling,” he added, his voice lowered. He was smiling; she could hear it in his tone.

She stole a glance up at him and saw there was a softness to his brown eyes she had not often seen before. “My Lord?” she all but squeaked.

When he closed the distance between them and kissed her in turn her heart faltered as if it were never going to resume. His lips felt warm and firm against hers, and a little moist. It was such a wonderful feeling that she forgot to breathe. She tried not to move, afraid it might dispel the moment.

Lord Nevermoor soothingly caressed her cheek as he withdrew. She had frozen under his touch, as he had thought she might. Yet they had barely parted when she leaned after him and pressed her lips back onto his. Her kisses were so eager and adorably clumsy; a little frown of utmost concentration creasing her brow as her hands reached for his shoulders, clearly determined to keep him near. He smiled into her shapeless kisses and gently tried to moderate them, guiding her to mimic his.

He broke the kiss after a short while despite her protests. She wanted him to continue, he could tell. He pinched her cheek, making her giggle and smile coyly. “That was a little naughty.”

“I apologise, my Lord,” she replied in a tiny voice, though it was obvious she regretted nothing.

It was then that he remembered what he had meant to do all eve. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips, she had managed to distract him again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and disentangled himself from her grasp, briefly straightening his garments before rising to his feet. She smiled at him, her blue eyes curious.

Lord Nevermoor knelt in front of her and reached for his jacket, his fingers closing around the small box. The confusion slowly dissipated from Charlotte's eyes as realisation sank in and flushed her cheeks an even deeper pink.

“Charlotte,” Lord Nevermoor started as he retrieved the small box and held it out to her, revealing the slender ring inside.

“ _Lionel_ \---!”

Something in the way Charlotte piped his first name jarred him out of the moment like a bucket of iced water. She was a proper young lady; she never called him by his first name. Lord Nevermoor's smile turned grim when he noticed her frightened gaze was fixed on a point directly behind him. He turned his head slowly to gaze up and across his shoulder. The unfriendly end of a revolver filled his vision, held by an uncouth stranger.

“You are making a grave mistake,” Lord Nevermoor said, levelling a warning glare on the filthy man. The man showed an ugly grin in reply.

“Nice and slow, guv'nor,” a second voice instructed with the careless drawl of a commoner. Lord Nevermoor returned his gaze in front of him to see the market fellow standing behind Charlotte, holding a rust-speckled but nonetheless sharp looking knife pressed against her pale throat. “Or the missus loses more than her jewellery.”

Charlotte stared at him with terrified, pleading eyes.

“You do not want to do that,” Lord Nevermoor replied as he slowly rose to his feet.

“Oh, but a think, a do guv'nor,” the market fellow grinned as he turned his attention to Charlotte. “Yer a pretty one, aren't ye?”

Charlotte pulled a face at his awful breath, her hands clutching her reticule as she tried to shrink away from the filthy man.

“Don't go,” he leered as he pressed the blade closer, pulling Charlotte back to him and nicking her smooth skin. Charlotte whimpered in distress.

Lord Nevermoor's scowl deepened and it seemed as if the atmosphere around them grew heavier under the very force of it. Direction and balance briefly ceased to exist as reality shifted out of shape. A moment later, the two thugs stood before him and Charlotte stood shivering at his side. He took off his jacket without breaking his gaze away from the lowlifes and put it around her shoulders before gently but firmly directing her behind him. She needn’t be told twice, he could feel her small hands grasp the back of his waistcoat as she complied.

“What the---?!” the market fellow started. The dumb expressions on their faces made their low birth even more apparent. The thug wielding the revolver pointed it at them with a sneer.

“You will regret that,” Lord Nevermoor observed, seemingly unfazed by the weapon pointed at his chest.

“A don't think a will, guv'nor,” the thug replied with an ugly grin as he stepped towards them. “A think a'll enjoy it.” The pistol barked, Charlotte screamed, and nothing appeared to happen.

At first, the thug thought the flint had malfunctioned. Until he saw the lead ball spinning to a halt in front of Lord Nevermoor’s idly raised palm. It hung motionless for a long moment before dropping to the ground and clinking away across the cobble stones, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet evening.

With a cry of disbelief the thug shot again and again, emptying the revolver’s chambers. However, when the smoke cleared Lord Nevermoor still stood and the lead balls span in front of him, slowly revolving around each other as if they were still in a chamber.

\+ I warned you. +

Hearing the Lord’s voice within his mind was the limit. The thug's eyes widened as he dropped his useless weapon and turned to flee. He did not get very far. After several steps he suddenly stumbled, six neat holes in the back of his jacket.

The market fellow stared at them. He had seen the lead balls shoot away, quiet and deadly, at a flick of the Lord's gloved hand. _Impossible_. He took a step backwards when Lord Nevermoor returned his attention to him.

\+ Drop it. +

The market fellow heard Lord Nevermoor's voice as clear as day and yet he knew he had not heard it with his ears. The man's hand shook, his fingers trembling around the handle of the knife. He wanted to let go. Why did he want to let go? That was stupid. He grimaced as he tried to maintain a hold on his weapon. Lord Nevermoor's scowl darkened ominously and a sudden wind picked up, gathering momentum around them as if the Lord were the centre of a vortex.

\+ _Drop it_. + Lord Nevermoor repeated as he pushed his sleeves up. Thunder rolled overhead as he approached, the wind whipping around them as if a storm was about to break loose.

The market fellow did no such thing, for he knew his odds: he had a knife and the fancy Lord did not. Instead of surrendering, he lunged for Lord Nevermoor.

Lord Nevermoor side stepped the strike as if it were nothing and slammed his fist into the market fellow's jaw. He dodged a second jab and a split second later his other fist connected squarely to the man's face. The market fellow howled as his nose broke under the Lord's knuckles, blood splattering in all directions.

The market fellow sneered and stabbed back, catching Lord Nevermoor's third blow with his knife. The blade went straight through Lord Nevermoor’s left palm, yet the Lord barely flinched. “Shouldn't have gone unarmed, guv'nor,” the market fellow mocked.

“You are gravely mistaken,” Lord Nevermoor replied as he slowly closed his fingers around the hilt while a fearsome grin unfurled across his hawkish features. “I am never unarmed.” And as he uttered the words he raised his unharmed hand towards the sky. Lightning stabbed down, engulfing his hand and crackling between his fingertips. For an instant it appeared as if he held and threw it, as it arched from his palm and slammed into his adversary with a clap of thunder. The man cried out and he finally let go of the knife as he spasmed and fell to the cobble stones.

Lord Nevermoor sank down on his haunches beside the man as he pulled the knife from his palm and discarded it.

The market fellow struggled but could not move, as if he were held prone by forces he could not see. He stared wildly at the gentleman kneeling by his side. Impossible. This was not happening. This could not be real.

An odd clinging sound broke the uncanny silence around them. At first it was not clear where it came from, but then a lead ball rolled across the cobble stones towards the discarded revolver. Something followed closely behind it like a cloud of bugs, but when it poured itself back into the revolver’s chamber it became all too obvious what it truly was. Slowly, the pistol rose until it hung quietly beside Lord Nevermoor. All by itself.

\+ Take it. +

Suddenly, the pressure holding his adversary prone abated. The market fellow saw his chance and lunged for the pistol. The moment his fingers closed around the grip the weapon turned on him and pushed its barrel into his mouth. A choked noise escaped him and he struggled to push it away. His eyes flared open in abject terror as the chamber span briefly before halting abruptly. The hammer clicked back. The man's mind ran in frantic circles. Lord Nevermoor smiled.

The shot cracked through the silent evening, making Charlotte jump.

Charlotte’s little cry drew Lord Nevermoor’s attention. He had thought she would have fainted by now. He rose slowly as the wind died down, the evening returning to its tranquil self. When he turned around, Charlotte was pale as a ghost, her eyes large with fright. She had her index finger aimed at herself as if it were a pistol. He scolded himself severely, realising instantly his anger had gotten the better of him. At least she hadn’t had a weapon this time. Memories of her mangled little frame surfaced but he forced them down. He tried to smile, well aware of his dishevelled, blood-spattered appearance as he approached her. He gently took her hand away from her face, opening his arms to embrace her. “It’s safe now, Arlette.”

Instead of returning his gesture, she took a step backwards. Too late he realised his mistake.

“Who is she?” Charlotte asked, her voice thin with terror as she regarded him with eyes that suggested a nightmare had just come alive in front of her. “W-what are you?”

“Charlotte, I---,” he reached for her, wanted to draw her into his embrace.

“No! Leave me alone!” Her voice broke as she stumbled several steps backwards. She almost fell.

He moved after her, wanted to prevent her from falling. He smiled as best he could as he took her hand. “You do not understand, I---.”

“Stay away from me!” She all but screamed, pulling her hand free. Her slap hit his cheek with the force of an emotional sledgehammer. “ _Freak_!”

Lord Nevermoor's expression hardened as his smile froze upon his lips, old grief seeping into his dark eyes. He held his hand out to her once more, beckoning. “Come here, you silly girl.”

“NO!” Charlotte balked, taking another step away from him and beginning to turn, as if she were of a mind to bolt.

“I said,” Lord Nevermoor repeated as he steeled himself against her terror stricken mind. + Come here. +

Her limbs immediately responded, her body moving against her will as her mind thrashed in distress against its physical cage like a terrified bird. He gritted his teeth as she approached him, unwilling to make her move faster across the uneven cobble stones. She might fall and hurt herself.

He closed his arms around her, holding her trembling frame as he caught her trashing mind firmly but not without care. It clawed at his with terrified, vicious thoughts that bit deeper than her words. + Do not fear me. + He whispered into her thoughts. Yet her mind refused to quiet. A sad but resigned expression flickered across his features. He did not want to do this, but she left him no choice.

\+ You are tired. Sleep. + Almost instantly her mind quieted and her slender frame went limp. He caught her immediately and lifted her up in his arms. He closed his eyes and stood quietly for a long moment, disentangling the recent knots from her delicate mind and erasing every trace of them. He would not lose her. Not again. Not like this.

When he had done all he could, he shifted his hold on her, resting her cheek against his shoulder and holding her slender legs in such a fashion that her skirts fell neatly. He sighed. He'd had such high hopes for this evening; he had wanted it to be the happiest night of her life. Instead, it had turned into the worst. He rested his forehead lightly to hers. + Me paenitet Arlette mea +

* * *

Lord Nevermoor gazed out of the drawing room window across Grosvenor's Square as he recalled the previous eve, absently toying with the small box in his hands. It was stained with mud.

"There is always tomorrow, young master Nevermoor," Mrs Baker offered reassuringly when she saw the Lord of the House standing forlornly by the window. Mrs Baker was a stout, older woman with ebon skin and kind, brown eyes. She reigned as housekeeper with a firm but fair hand and had known Lord Nevermoor for a long time.

"I know, Merinda." Lord Nevermoor sighed, his shoulders sagging as he turned to look at her. He seemed so much older in the harsh morning light, as if he had aged a life time in a single night. "I wanted it to be yesterday."

"You were ever impatient, even as a boy," Mrs Baker smiled as she spotted a crease in the tablecloth and straightened it. "Your father always said to me: 'Merinda, don't you let that boy run amok with time, there is plenty of it'." When she had remedied the fault in one of the parlour maids' cleaning their gazes crossed once more. "There is always tomorrow. I do not think it will be long until Miss Charlotte has recovered."

Lord Nevermoor smiled and though the sadness clinging to him did not leave his eyes a brief flicker of amusement passed across his features at her words. "Is she sleeping?" He inquired.

"Like a rose," Mrs Baker assured him. "Rest is what she needs most now."

Lord Nevermoor nodded in agreement and he was about to speak once more when the doorbell rang. A moment later Harris, Lord Nevermoor's valet, appeared to announce their visitor. "My Lord, Constable Renner is here to speak with you."

"Ah, yes," Lord Nevermoor said as he put the small box back in the pocket of his jacket. He had almost forgotten the constable would be by to discuss the matter of the previous eve. As he walked past Mrs Baker he briefly put a hand to her shoulder. "Thank you."

The constable stood waiting in the hall, his bowler hat in hand. He was a stocky, genial man as readable as an open book. "Good morning, Lord," he greeted Lord Nevermoor heartily the moment he appeared from the drawing room. "I apologise for the early call, may we speak privately?"

"And to you, constable. Naturally, we may, " Lord Nevermoor returned his greeting, though not with as much hospitality as might have been. "My study is this way, please."

"How is Miss Westwater?" Constable Renner inquired kindly as they ascended the stairs to the second floor.

"She's delicate as a spring flower, but she will recover," Lord Nevermoor answered as he led the way to his study. "I have delegated my schedule for the coming days and will stay with her until such a time that she has fully recovered." He unlocked the door to his study before opening it and letting the constable enter. The study was lined with overfull bookcases and glass vitrines with the most curious and exotic objects along all walls but the one directly behind his desk which held a large bay window that gazed out across Grosvenor's Square.

Constable Renner nodded in agreement. “Your presence will do her good, I am certain.”

“Would you wish something to drink?” Lord Nevermoor offered as he walked around his desk, indicating the bottle there.

“No, no – not on the job, you see,” the constable declined kindly.

“Ah yes, of course,” Lord Nevermoor replied as he shook his head. “What can I help you with, constable?”

“I would not take you away from Miss Westwater's side if I did not have to,” Constable Renner apologised. “But I must confirm some of the events of last night by your statement.”

“I understand," Lord Nevermoor said as he sat down behind his desk and indicated the chair across it. "Please, sit."

“Thank you," the constable replied as he settled in the chair before producing a notebook and pencil. "Now, you were confronted last night on the brink of 10 'o at Hyde Park, by two men?”

“That is correct," Lord Nevermoor agreed as he steeped his fingers.

“I see," the constable wrote something down for a moment. “And these men threatened Miss Westwater and yourself?”

“Yes. One threatened her with a knife as the second held me at gun point,” Lord Nevermoor explained, his expression souring as he recalled the events of the previous night.

“This is when Miss Westwater fainted?” Constable Renner inquired.

“Just so," Lord Nevermoor affirmed.

“One of the men appeared to have attempted to flee," the constable continued as he scanned across his notes before looking up at Lord Nevermoor once more. "Do you know why?"

"They argued, I paid it little heed," Lord Nevermoor said dismissively. "My primary concern was my dearest's safety."

"Of course," Constable Renner agreed, nodding in understanding. "What happened then?"

“I heard shots some moments after," Lord Nevermoor continued. "When I glanced up, one of the lowlifes had shot the other."

“Yes, those shots had been remarkably accurate, considering the circumstances," the constable replied. “All punctured vital organs – heart, liver, spleen, stomach, both lungs.”

One of Lord Nevermoor's eyebrows slowly arched up. “Curious.”

“Indeed," Constable Renner agreed. "Do you remember anything in particular of the suicide?”

“The thug shot himself; I cannot phantom what goes on in a low born mind such as his," Lord Nevermoor replied tersely. It was clear from his tone he was growing weary of the questioning.

“Very well," Constable Renner said as he put his notebook and pencil away. "Then there is merely the matter of his other injuries left," he continued, phrasing his words delicately. "They suggest he may have been physically assaulted."

Lord Nevermoor's expression hardened and something quiet and disconcerting shifted across his brown eyes, like a dark shadow lurking beneath the water's surface. “He threatened my dearest.”

“I understand,” the constable agreed with an uncomfortable smile. “I merely needed your statement.”

“Consider it stated," Lord Nevermoor said as he rose. "If there is nothing further?”

“That was all," the constable said as he too rose from his seat and offered his hand to Lord Nevermoor. "If anything else comes to mind –.”

“I shall let you know," Lord Nevermoor finished as he shook the constable's hand. They left his study after that and descended the stairs. When Lord Nevermoor opened the front door the constable turned to speak once more.

"Please, give Miss Westwater my well wishes," Constable Renner said by way of a farewell.

"I shall," Lord Nevermoor replied as he held the door open. "Good day, constable."

"Good day, Lord Nevermoor," Constable Renner returned.

As the constable walked down the steps Lord Nevermoor saw a delivery boy cross the square, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. And not just any kind, they were blooming Nile lilies.

"Special delivery!" the boy hailed. Lord Nevermoor frowned. He had not ordered any flowers. He accepted the bouquet regardless and tipped the delivery boy. "Thank you, sir!" the boy exclaimed at the handsome reward.

Lord Nevermoor closed the door without comment. As he turned he saw there was a small card attached to the flowers. He reached for it as he walked down the hall and opened it. And froze. Within the small card a seal was stamped: a Nile lilly, it's head hanging, an olive branch winding around its stem as two fierce strokes pierced it; and a sword raised before it. It was different, he had never seen it in it's current form, but he recognised it for what it was regardless. He frowned grimly as he tugged the card free and put it in the pocket of his jacket.

As Lord Nevermoor walked up the stairs Mrs Baker appeared from Charlotte's rooms. "She's awake," she said with a meaningful smile at the flowers.

"Perfect," Lord Nevermoor returned and tried to pull a smile onto his lips as he strode across Charlotte's little drawing room.

"Oh! You bought them!" Charlotte exclaimed weakly, but clearly pleased, when he entered her bedroom. "They are so lovely."

Mrs Baker came in and handed him a vase before leaving, closing the door quietly behind her.

Lord Nevermoor put the vase of flowers on Charlotte's bedside table and sat down by her side on the edge of her bed.

"They are my favourite," Charlotte added as she hugged him.

Lord Nevermoor held her close and stroke her blonde curls. "I know," he replied quietly, his thoughts darkened by the flower card. They had found him once more.


	2. Across the Horizon of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time has passed, perhaps a week or more. Charlotte has recovered and Lionel has proposed to her in the interim. Yet the consequences of that fateful night force him away from her side. He has made every arrangement he could think of, every precaution to assure her safety, yet rightly fears it will never be enough.

“Must you go?” Charlotte Westwater implored for what was quite probably the tenth time that very morning, and the second time since they had gotten into the carriage that would bring them to Euston station.

“Yes, dearest,” Lord Lionel Nevermoor replied with all but infinite patience. Ever since he had announced his trip to the Americas she had done her very best to dissuade him from it. He had explained the situation to her in so far she needed to know every time she had asked, varying the wording of his responses in a vain attempt to sooth her nervosity. “It is paramount that I arrive in time to secure the land titles, for these acres have promising prospects for oil and comprise a solid investment,” he explained once more. “However, I have to be present in person to sign the deeds.”

“Can you not send a proxy, my Lord?” Charlotte proposed, as he had known she would. Lord Nevermoor often employed proxies to conduct his business away from London and although it was certainly not the first time he had to travel abroad in person, it would be the longest trip yet.

“You know I cannot,” he replied and she hung her head dejectedly, her hands in her lap as she sat beside him. He took one of her small, gloved hands and gave it a light squeeze. “I wish to give you all the things you will ever need,” he added gently when she glanced sadly in his direction. “And our little ones too, when they come. Everything they want and the very best education. You know that, do you not?”

“Yes, I do,” Charlotte replied, entwining her fingers through his as she looked at their hands and the delicate ring around her finger. She had been beside herself when he had proposed to her, but now he had to go. She did not want him to go.

Lord Nevermoor reached for her chin with his free hand and tilted her gaze back up to his. “Life does not pay for itself, sweetling,” he said as he tucked a blonde curl behind her ear. “I have to go.”

“I understand,” Charlotte answered, though it was more than clear she was unhappy with his decision.

“Do not be sad, Lottie,” he said softly as he pressed a kiss to her pouting lips. “I promise I will return as soon as possible.”

“You promise?” she asked all but against his skin as she returned the kiss and reached her hands up to embrace him.

“I do,” he replied as he held her against him while they kissed.

It was not long after that their carriage arrived at Euston square and drove down the short road that led to the imposing Euston arch which formed the entrance to the station.

“Oh!” Charlotte exclaimed, awed by the magnificent Revival Greek structure as they drove under it. She had never seen the intercity station before. “Can we briefly view it up close?” she asked, her eyes alight with admiration.

“Naturally,” Lord Nevermoor replied as their carriage halted a short distance into the grand, gravel strewn plaza beyond the arch.

“Will you tell me about it?” Charlotte asked, gazing out of the window at the colossal structure. It was well over twenty metres high and supported by four massive columns.

Lord Nevermoor consulted his pocket watch, affectionately touching the small portrait on the inside of its lid before closing it. They had time yet before he must embark. “Very well.” He climbed out of their carriage the moment Harris, his valet and the only one to join him on his journey to the Americas, opened the door for them. “Dearest,” Lord Nevermoor called gently when he turned to see Charlotte had not followed him. Instead, she still sat by the window, gazing at the arch. Charlotte glanced up and, seeing him beckon, quickly moved to take his hand. “I thought you wished to view it up close?” he remarked, his tone amused as he helped her out of the carriage.

“I do!” Charlotte replied as she briefly let go of his hand to self-consciously adjust her bodice and straighten her rumpled skirts. A smile teased around Lord Nevermoor's lips at that and when their gazes crossed the most adorable little blush of modesty tinged her fair cheeks pink.

When she had finished he offered her his arm, which she gladly took. She leaned a fair bit closer to him than he would normally allow in public, but it was not strictly improper and considering his imminent departure he let her. “The original station was built by William Cubitt and designed by the structural engineer Charles Fox and the classically trained architect Philip Hardwick. They completed it in '37,” Lord Nevermoor began his explanation as they approached the imposing structure. “This monumental Doric propylaeum was part of Hardwick's design for the station's entrance and it is the largest of its kind currently in existence,” he continued as he indicated the Euston arch with his cane. “Can you deduce what classical structure it is based on?”

A light frown creased Charlotte's fair brow, though she never took her gaze from the monument as they passed under it and stood by the ornamental black-and-gold iron gates between the columns. It looked familiar, she was certain she had seen something like it on the pen sketches of one of her Lord's tomes about the ancient world. “A triumphal arch?” she answered uncertainly.

“True, that is also a monumental gate but no, not quite,” Lord Nevermoor corrected her gently, well aware of the way her expression fell at the realisation she had given the wrong answer. “The arch is based on the Propylaeum, the monumental gateway that is the entrance to the acropolis of Athens, in Greece. I am certain you recall the acropolis of Athens?”

Charlotte nodded, the momentary sadness disappearing from her fair features for she knew the answer to this question. “The word comes from the Greek 'akron' and 'polis' meaning 'top' or 'edge' and 'city',” she recalled. “It is an ancient citadel above Athens and contains very important buildings from antiquity, such as the Parthenon to Athena and the temple of Athena Nike.”

Lord Nevermoor nodded in agreement. It was close enough. “Very good.” Charlotte smiled proudly as they walked back out from under the arch and onto the gravel. “After its initial construction in '37 the station was greatly expanded in '49 with the addition of the Great Hall, which was designed by the erstwhile architect's son Philip Charles Hardwick,” Lord Nevermoor continued as they crossed the wide plaza. Harris joined them then, walking a small distance behind them and carrying what little luggage Lord Nevermoor had brought with him. Ellis, Charlotte's maid servant, walked beside him. “It is said the construction of the classical structure cost well over 150.000 pounds.”

Charlotte gasped in mild shock at the sum, raising her hand modestly to her lips. “It must be very impressive! Can we view it?”

Lord Nevermoor smiled. “We are heading there right now,” he replied as he indicated the imposing, three story building looming before them with his cane. “I must pick up my ticket at the offices.”

The Great Hall proved to be spectacular indeed, it's elaborately coffered ceiling higher than the archway had been and it's floor paved in priceless marble. Charlotte gazed at the painted ceiling in wonder as they ascended the double flight of stairs that led to the offices, her lips slightly parted in awe.

“Sweetling,” Lord Nevermoor said as he reached for her chin and lightly pressed it up, closing her mouth with the soft clack of little teeth. At the realisation that she had been gaping like a slack-jawed commoner colour immediately tinged Charlotte's cheeks.

“I apologise, my Lord,” Charlotte said, an embarrassed giggle escaping her when her gaze crossed his askance frown. Amusement briefly flitted across his features as they continued towards the ticket offices.

“Ah, my Lord! Please,” one of the clerks said as he caught sight of the clearly aristocratic couple and beckoned them forward. Lord Nevermoor nodded in acknowledgement and led Charlotte past the line of waiting travellers. “How may I be of service?” the clerk asked kindly when they stood in front of him.

“I am here to pick up a reservation, London to Liverpool,” Lord Nevermoor answered.

The clerk leafed through the register until he found the document. “A single traveller?” he asked, only just managing to hide his surprise.

“That is correct,” Lord Nevermoor confirmed.

“Very well then,” the clerk returned, frowning slightly as he stamped the ticket and handed it to Lord Nevermoor. “My Lord, my Lady.”

“Thank you, and a good day,” Lord Nevermoor said as he put the ticket in the inside pocket of his jacket and briefly touched his hand to the edge of his top hat.

“And to you, my Lord,” the clerk returned amicably.

They walked down the flight of stairs once more and crossed the Great Hall to the train shed beyond. There were six platforms these days, sheltered under a vast iron wrought roof. The train to Liverpool just arrived on platform three as they stepped out onto the porch.

“Until '44 the locomotives were pulled up the incline in front of the station,” Lord Nevermoor remarked as they watched the great locomotive roll into the station, belching steam from its stout chimney.

“Really? Did they use horses to tow them up?” Charlotte asked, trying to imagine how one would drag such a heavy engine up to the platforms.

“Yes, truly. The locomotives were not allowed to run into Euston area. Local prominent residents were concerned the engines would emit much noise and smoke as they toiled up the incline,” Lord Nevermoor explained. “Instead, they used an ingenious but laborious cable system and horses.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose as the smoke and smell of the steam engine finally reached them. “They were right to be concerned.”

“Yes,” Lord Nevermoor replied with a wry smile. “Yes, they were.”

“I would have moved to a more proper neighbourhood straight away,” Charlotte declared when another locomotive arrived, adding to the din and smell of the first. “I am certain all respectable Lords and Ladies moved.”

Lord Nevermoor shook his head slightly in amusement. “They surely did, dearest.”

They descended the wide porch stairs then and Lord Nevermoor led Charlotte to platform three, where his train now stood waiting. He nodded at Harris' glance, who proceeded to bring the luggage on board. It would not be long now before he had to depart.

“I cannot well bear your absence, my Lord,” Charlotte admitted. She had taken his hand in her own, appearing quite unwilling to let go.

“I know, my sweetest,” Lord Nevermoor replied as he gave her hand a light squeeze. He did not wish to leave her behind either but he could not bring her along, it was too dangerous and concerned matters she did not need to know about.

“I will miss you,” Charlotte added, her blue eyes shimmering with the first hint of tears.

“And I will miss you, dearest,” Lord Nevermoor admitted as he gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her slender shoulders. “I will miss you very much.”

When her shoulders shook slightly, he tightened his grip around her and soothingly stroke her blonde curls. She tried to stifle the little sob, but he heard it anyway. “Do not cry, Lottie,” he muttered as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It is not for long.”

Charlotte looked up at him, her cheeks streaked with tears. Although she had made little noise, that had clearly not kept her tears from spilling. “Every second is too long, Lionel,” she replied dramatically, though he could tell she meant every word of it. Her bottom lip trembled despite her best efforts.

He smiled gently as he cupped her jaw with both hands, resting his forehead lightly against hers. “You have to be strong now, sweetling,” he instructed as their gazes crossed. He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “You are the Lady of the House while I am gone and Mrs Baker and the servants depend on you for guidance.”

Charlotte nodded, though her expression remained sad. He kissed her then, wishing he could take her grief away, and could not care less whether or not it was proper to do so in the middle of a train station. She responded desperately, her hands clenching in the heavy fabric of his coat as they kissed. Too soon did the conductor's whistle disrupt their tender moment. It was time to truly say good bye.

Lord Nevermoor disentangled himself from Charlotte's hold, who let go reluctantly. She held his hand as he ascended the steps onto the train carriage's narrow porch until the height difference forced her to let go. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before her fingers slipped from his. The locomotive's horn announced its imminent departure as she produced a kerchief from her reticule, dabbing briefly at her eyes as the engine noise swelled.

Charlotte bravely waved, the kerchief fluttering between her fingers, as she fought down the tears welling up in her eyes once more when the train slowly began to move. Lord Nevermoor touched his hand to his heart in reply as the distance between them grew. Charlotte did not abandon her spot nor abated waving until the train had disappeared around the bend and down the incline.

“Miss,” Ellis said quietly as she took her mistress' arm, offering to support her if necessary. “Let us go home now.”

“No, I must...” Charlotte started as she lowered her hand, her gaze still upon the now empty train track. Had he found his seat? Was he thinking of her? Would he be able to have tea? It was nearly tea time. She wrung her hands together, crumpling her kerchief but not quite noticing. He always read the paper at tea. Had Mr Harris brought today's paper?

“Come, Miss,” Ellis insisted as she gently tugged her mistress' arm. “Let us go home, I shall prepare your favourite tea and scones.”

“Yes, yes, let's go home,” Charlotte said absently as she let her maid servant lead her away. Though she kept her gaze on the train track until the archway to the Great Hall drew it from sight.

Lord Nevermoor gazed out of the window as they passed the industry terrain beyond Euston. He had retired to the drawing room of his sleeping car, not quite in the mood for the company of strangers. He had delegated all his affairs for the coming weeks and everything should proceed smoothly in his absence. If anything came up they could reach him by telegraph, but he expected no trouble.

He leaned back with a sigh as his thoughts wandered to Charlotte. She had appeared so pitiful as he departed, standing upon the deserted platform. She had suddenly seemed again so very much like the little girl she had once been. He remembered it as if it had been yesterday even though it was nearly a decade ago now. He had entered the dirty pawn shop and she had just sat there in her smudged little dress. She had sat in a corner, alone and quite forgotten, playing with the old clutter instead of proper toys. He had known it was her the moment she glanced up at him. He smiled faintly. She had changed so little.

“My Lord, your tea,” Harris said as he appeared beside Lord Nevermoor, a cup of tea in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other.

“Thank you, Harris,” Lord Nevermoor replied absently as his valet put the cup of tea down in front of him before handing him the day's newspaper. The front page was graced by a headline proclaiming citizens now trusted the Metropolitan Police to solve the city's rampant crime. Lord Nevermoor smiled wryly, wondering exactly who were meant with 'citizens'.

Fortunately, the majority of crime was confined to the lesser boroughs in the East End. Charlotte would be safe so long as she did not do anything foolish, such as visiting her charities, while he were away. At least Ellis would be with her at all times. The maid was several years her senior and had seen enough of the less desirable parts of the city to know to steer them both clear of them.

Lord Nevermoor put the newspaper down on the table and reached for his pocket watch, clicking it open and smiling faintly at the little portrait on the inside of its lid. Charlotte had gifted him the pocket watch shortly after their engagement and it held a tiny oil-on-ivory miniature, a colour reproduction of a photograph of her and his stallion Coşkun. It was a sweet scene; his dearest pressing a gentle kiss to the Akhal-teke's snout. A frown briefly creased his brow. He aught to visit the life stock cars at some point, to ascertain the valuable animal was well accommodated.

Lord Nevermoor had looked upon the little painting often since she had gifted it to him, but it was only now that he noticed the portrait's rim did not fit as neatly into the pocket watch's lid as he had initially assumed. There appeared to be a small edge of redundant space on its right side. When he carefully touched around it, the little portrait clicked away from the lid on a miniscule hinge. The tiny masterpiece it revealed on the flip side caused his eyebrows to rise to new heights.

The second work was a miniscule oil-on-wood of Charlotte. She was reclining backwards on what appeared to be the divan in their sunroom, glancing coyly across her shoulder at the viewer and revealing an improper amount of bare shoulder and back, all the way to the gentle curve of her bum. Her blonde curls tumbled down between her shoulders as she shyly held up her lavender night dress in front of her to cover her modesty.

Though there was no signature on the small painting, Lord Nevermoor knew that brush work well enough. A smile settled across his features. He would have been upset about the notion that she had all but undressed in front of another, if he had not been certain said other had undoubtedly been flustered into impotency at the sight. The smile upon Lord Nevermoor's lips twitched in amusement and he settled down promising himself that, upon his return, he would pay his fanciful old friend a visit to inquire upon the occasion. The notion of Charlotte attempting to cajole the poor man into this amused him for several minutes.

Realising his tea was growing cold Lord Nevermoor picked up his cup, a frown creasing his brow once more. He took a sip from the now lukewarm draught as he reached into his jacket and produced a small card. Within it a seal was stamped: a Nile lilly, it's head hanging, an olive branch winding around its stem as two fierce strokes pierced it; and a sword raised before it. He had left a subtle trail; hiding his coming and going shallow enough for a searching eye to find but well enough to not arouse suspicion. If fortune was on his side, they would follow him to the Americas. He smiled as he put the card away. He would be ready for them there.

* * *

Lord Nevermoor's townhouse was a regal building. Which, Charlotte vaguely recalled, he had purchased from a quaint Dutch gentleman who had built the house in the stately style of his ancestors, even though no canals were near. The house was an austere, two story affair with an elegant facade. It sprawled across two narrow, adjacent plots and those directly behind it which had been converted into a beautiful garden with carriage house and stables.

When Charlotte arrived at the house there was only Marshal, Lord Nevermoor's large but exceedingly soft-hearted alpine mastiff, to greet her. Mrs Baker and the rest of the household had left across the preceding days to put Ernhyrst in order for her arrival. She would stay at the country estate until Lord Nevermoor came back. No, she corrected herself as she touched the slender, golden ring around her finger with a faint smile. She would stay there until her fiancé returned home to her. She patted Marshal's head, after Ellis had taken her dolman, and retired to the morning room, the large brindle marked dog padding after her.

The morning room was sumptuously furnished and bathed in light from its large bay windows, which gazed out upon Grosvenor's square on the front and right side. The drawing room was panelled in light wood and a carpet from the Orient graced the floor. An elaborate mirror hung upon the windowless wall and comfortably upholstered lounge furniture stood before it. However, today the drawing room's pleasant atmosphere did nothing to sooth Charlotte as she sat down on the divan, finding it's otherwise tranquil silence oppressive. There was no creak of boards as servants crossed overhead on the second floor. No muffled slam as one of the hallway doors caught a draft. But, most of all, not the rustle of newspaper, the shifting of garments or the slow breathing that indicated Lord Nevermoor was in the same room. If Charlotte closed her eyes, she could imagine these familiar sounds so vividly she almost heard them. Almost, but not quite.

“Your tea, Miss,” Ellis announced gently as she entered the drawing room, so as not to spook her young mistress out of her daydreams. She carried a silver serving tray with a small, porcelain teapot, a matching tea cup and a dessert platter with freshly made blueberry scones.

When Charlotte opened her eyes the sight of Lord Nevermoor's favoured armchair and ottoman standing unoccupied in their sun lit corner unkindly reinforced his absence. The newspaper did not lay upon the slim end table beside it, which she hoped meant Mr Harris had brought it with.

“Oh Ellis, I am sorry!” Charlotte exclaimed when she saw her maid servant and started out of her thoughts. She immediately reached for the pembroke table standing beside the divan.

“No, no, Miss, please,” Ellis interrupted Charlotte as she quickly but carefully balanced the serving tray on a nearby end table before hurrying over and pulling the pembroke in front of the divan, unfolding its drop leaves.

“Ellis, I do not mind giving you a hand,” Charlotte assured her maid servant as she sat up, arranging her skirts beside her.

“It's not proper, Miss,” Ellis replied as she picked up the serving tray and put it down on the small table now in front of her young mistress, then poured her a cup.

Charlotte accepted the cup gracefully and took a sip from the warm draught. “You sound just like Mrs Baker,” she remarked as she smiled behind the porcelain when catching her maid servant's eye.

“Mrs Baker is right,” Ellis returned, trying her very best to remain serious. His Lordship and Mrs Baker would not approve if she were too familiar with her young mistress.

“Please, Ellis, its just us girls now,” Charlotte smiled as she put her cup down and patted the divan beside her. “Come sit with me.”

Ellis hesitated at the formidable break of decorum, warily eyeing the spot Charlotte had indicated. “Miss, I shouldn't-.”

“Please, sit and talk with me,” Charlotte implored sadly as she looked up at her maid servant. “I feel so lonely and we are friends, are we not?”

“Of course we are, Miss,” Ellis assured her as she sat down beside Charlotte, feeling tremendously out-of-place.

Charlotte's smile broadened slightly, clearly pleased. “Do you want some tea too, Ellis?” she asked kindly and, to Ellis' horror, she moved as if of a mind to rise.

“I will fetch a cup for myself, Miss!” Ellis all but squeaked as she waved at Charlotte to remain seated while she rose swiftly herself.

A light frown creased Charlotte's brow, but she nodded and settled back down. Ellis left the drawing room at a trot, returning a moment later with another cup and saucer. Charlotte reached for the teapot as her maid servant sat down and Ellis opened her mouth to protest the moment she saw her young mistress do so.

“Please, Ellis,” Charlotte said before she had a chance to voice her protest. “At least let me pour you tea.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Ellis yielded dutifully as she accepted the cup and took a miniscule sip from the tea. She sighed. It tasted lovely.

Charlotte smiled and attempted to eat a scone as gracefully as possible. “They are delicious, Ellis,” Charlotte complimented her maid servant. “Do you want to try one too?”

“No, Miss, I really shouldn't,” Ellis returned.

“I can not possibly eat all of these by myself,” Charlotte chuckled as she indicated the plate and the modest pile of scones arranged upon it. “I would grow fat!”

Ellis could not help but laugh at the ridiculous notion. “You won't grow fat, Miss,” she assured her young mistress. “You go for walks and horse riding often.”

“Maybe, but I shan't chance it,” Charlotte replied with a smile as she held up the dessert plate in front of Ellis.

They spend most of the afternoon talking, their laughter regularly ringing through the empty house. Dusk was falling by the time Ellis took note of the hour, and hastily rose.

“My pardon, Miss, but I must really go and run the last errands,” Ellis apologised as she straightened her dress. “Mrs Baker will be furious if I do not attend to them before we leave on the morrow.”

Charlotte nodded, realising she had kept the young woman from her tasks far too long. “I am sorry for stalling you, Ellis,” she replied sincerely as she took her maid servant's hand and smiled at her. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

Ellis made a small curtsey. “Always, Miss.”

“Take Marshal with you,” Charlotte added as an afterthought when she glanced outside and saw how late it was. “It will be dark soon, and he must see to his needs.”

“But Miss, you will be all alone,” Ellis returned with a frown. She did not much like the idea of taking the large hound away from her young mistress' side. His Lordship had specifically instructed her to assure the animal was never far from his fiancée's side during his absence.

“He might foul the house,” Charlotte countered on a concerned tone as she looked about the impeccable drawing room.

“As you wish, Miss,” Ellis conceded. “I will take Marshal along and make sure he can relieve himself.” She was not happy with this but she could not chance the hound befouling His Lordship's home, nor could she allow her young mistress to walk the large beast herself.

“I will retire for a spell while you are away,” Charlotte announced as she rose. “Please, awaken me when you return.”

“Shall I assist you before I leave, Miss?” Ellis inquired, but Charlotte shook her head.

“No need,” Charlotte declined kindly. Her tea gown was lovely but relatively simple of design, she would be able to divest herself from it on her own.

Ellis nodded. “I shall return soon, Miss,” she assured Charlotte as she briefly inclined her head. “Come Marshal!”

Charlotte watched her maid servant disappear into the hall, Marshal trotting after her and wagging his tail. She smiled, Ellis' company had lightened her spirits. Though when she turned, her gaze rested briefly on Lord Nevermoor's empty seat and her heart suddenly plummeted straight into her heeled little boots. She pulled a miserable face. He had barely left and already she missed him terribly. Feeling her previously light mood darken, Charlotte quickly averted her gaze and left the drawing room. It was best not to dwell. She would rest and then she would feel better.

Charlotte entered the hall, passed the wide, marble stairway that led to the ground floor, and climbed the more discrete side stairs to the second floor, which comprised their private chambers. A little nap would do her good. Halfway down the hall towards her bedchambers she halted abruptly. The door to her fiancé's study stood open on a crack.

A little frown creased her brow as she turned towards it. Why was the door open? He always locked it. Always. She approached it and put her hand onto the doorknob to push it closed. And froze as a cold breeze brushed across her skin. Charlotte suppressed a shiver. It had come from within his study. Surely he had not forgotten to close a window? It was not like him to be forgetful. Not like him at all.

She shook her head and closed the door with an audible click. She was not allowed into his study without him. However, she did not let go of the doorknob. What if a window were open? Someone could come in while they were away. Charlotte chewed her bottom lip as she glanced back at the door. Was it open? It was merely a breeze. The house was old. Charlotte made up her mind and pushed the door open. She suppressed a shiver as a cold breeze greeted her from the darkness beyond.

It was dark in Lord Nevermoor's study. Charlotte could barely see the shadowy outline of his desk, his chair, the book cases lining the walls all the way up to the ceiling and the mantlepiece tucked between them. Despite the heavy velvet, the drawn curtains behind his desk moved faintly. Charlotte straightened her back and marched into her fiancé's den, the clicks of her heels loud as shots on the parquetry. She kept her gaze purposefully on the curtains, her thoughts solemnly on her proper intent.

Charlotte kept her gaze straight ahead and resolutely drew one of the curtains aside, blinking as light from the gaslit street beyond knifed in through the paned window. One of the large side panels stood wide open. It had been a dreary afternoon and she instinctively grasped for her shawl, drawing it closer around herself. A lady halted across the street, adjusting her wine red winter coat. Charlotte wondered absently who she was; she did not recall ever having seen the woman before. A little frown creased her brow. A Lady alone in the street and in the evening no less; how unseemly.

Charlotte reached for the handle to close the window, but pulled her hand back in reflex the moment she touched it. It had been cold and slick. And when she looked at her hand, her pale fingers were stained with mud. How in the Lord's gracious name had mud gotten onto the second floor window's handle? It was only then that she saw the odd smear on the marble window sill. She backed up frightfully as she lifted her hand to her lips, her eyes widening at the footsteps the smear trail became. There was someone inside. Her eyes followed the muddy prints across the floor, unable to look away. The trail disappeared under the door to her fiancé's library.

What must she do? She knew she aught to alert the nearest constable on his round through the neighbourhood, but there was someone in their house, their home! And the vile intruder had gone into her fiancé's library. What if the impudent figure took something irreplacable? She could not let that happen! Lord Nevermoor had left the household in her care. She would not disappoint him!

Charlotte bit her bottom lip as she tried to make up her mind, standing beside his desk with her hand flat on the oaken surface as if its wooden solidity might lend her its strength. She could not shame Lord Nevermoor's trust, she would not allow it. With a determined little frown she clenched her hands into fists at her sides and marched towards the library door, determined to confront the miscreant that had dared to come into their home uninvited.

She firmly grasped the doorknob and pushed open the library door. It creaked formidably as it swung wide, quiet darkness even thicker than that in her fiancé's study spilling out from the library beyond. She thought she could see the tall, solid shapes of free standing bookcases.

“Show yourself!” Charlotte demanded, her voice betraying only the slightest tremble. “I know you are in here. Come out now, and I will plead that my Lord be merciful!”

None answered.

Charlotte stood by the door, her hand upon the post, listening. She heard no footsteps, no rustling, nothing. No, not quite nothing. There was a strange, swishing sound, not unlike the airy woosh of the heavy pendulum on the hallway clock. She wondered if there was another such timepiece in her fiancé's library.

She turned then and strode back into his study to pick up the gaslamp standing cold upon an end table beside an ancient celestial globe. She needed matchsticks to light it and those would, undoubtedly, be in one of the top drawers of her fiancé's desk. She looked at the slender, brass handled fronts for a long moment. She could go downstairs and retrieve matchsticks from the kitchen. However, that might allow the intruder to sneak away while she was not here! Charlotte opened the first drawer on a crack, just enough to slip her slender hand through, and tried to look at its content as little as humanly possible while searching for the matchsticks. When she did not find them, she continued with the other drawers. It took her a few minutes, but when she finally found the matchsticks - all but by touch alone - she lit the gaslamp and returned to the library door.

“This is your last chance!” Charlotte announced with far more confidence than she felt. “I shan't be able to speak well of you if you hide cowardly and force me to come and find you! My Lord will be most displeased!” She worried her bottom lip as she stared into the vast library and listened intently. The darkness beyond the gaslamp's light seemed even deeper than before. Oh, how much she wished Lionel was there. He would have known what to do! But he was not there and would not be for several weeks. She was alone - she had even sent Ellis away with Marshal! She eyed the darkness beyond the reach of the gaslamp. She was afraid, but she tried to control it. She drew herself up to her modest height and squared her shoulders. She was a lady, a Countess soon: fear was beneath her.

She held the gaslamp up higher. The yellow light cast long, shifting shadows across the parquetry as she walked into the library, making it appear as if the tall bookcases leaned down to reach for her. She shook her head; that was silly, they were merely bookcases. Regardless, she flinched whenever the wood creaked under foot as she followed the muddy trail.

She was some dozen paces in when she passed an open corner where a study table heaped in scrolls and books stood against the wall beneath one of the tall, paned windows. Charlotte noticed an old bracket clock upon it and smiled as she approached. It was an ancient, bronze timepiece with an ebony face and delicate golden hands behind smoothly curved glass. However, her expression fell the moment her gaze came upon the small, glass window at its base. Through it, the clock's internal mechanisms could be seen. And it's pendulum? It's pendulum did not swing.

Charlotte frowned, perhaps it had only just stopped? She had not heard the odd, swooshing sound since she had entered. At least, she thought she had not? She listened intently. It was absolutely quiet, there was nothing to be-. No, there it was. She stared at the ancient timepiece as a cold shiver crawled up her spine. It was most definitely not coming from the clock. Perhaps... perhaps her fiancé possessed another? The explanation sounded weak, even to her own ears.

She forced her discomfort down and returned to the muddy trail. She had an intruder to find! And he would be in a sore spot of trouble when she did; entering their home uninvited! However, she resumed her path more quietly, putting her toes down first to make as little noise as possible. To hear the clock, of course, nothing else.

A modest gasp escaped Charlotte when the gaslamp's warm light suddenly fell away into gaping darkness. It took her a moment to regain her composure and notice the dark, elegant, cast iron bannister directly in front of her. It circumvented the open, rear end of the library, running along a circular gallery which led to a winding, cast iron stair case directly opposite where she stood. The mud trail led around the gallery and straight towards it.

Charlotte followed the trail down the stair's cast iron steps, tightly holding the railing and the tip of her skirts with her free hand for fear of tripping and falling. The steps were narrow and slick with mud.

A frown creased her gentle brow by the time she stood upon the floor once more. The mud trail was growing fainter, the footprints rapidly becoming less distinct. She continued following it deeper into the library but it wasn't long or the trail was entirely gone. She scowled. The intruder had walked all the dirt off his boots in their home! If she found him, he better clean it right back up!

However, without his muddy feet to betray him, she now had no idea where he had gone. She stood quietly, straining her ears to hear something – anything. But all she heard was the odd swooshing. It appeared to come from somewhere to her left, from among the dark shadows between several rows of particularly tall bookcases near the back of the house.

She approached the bookcases cautiously, the light of the gaslamp glinting off bindings and gilded lettering as she walked among them. There was something up ahead. She could see a crumpled form, a heap of sorts.

“Show yourself this very instant!” Charlotte called as she neared, but her voice faltered and shifted up an octave. She scowled at herself, annoyed with her inability to maintain a dignified, unaffected tone. “Sir,” she repeated more steadily. “You are tres--!”

Her sentence ended in a scream as the gaslamp's light glinted across a great expanse of crimson and fell on the limp form sprawled amid the morbid pool. Charlotte felt suddenly very light headed, and everything drew to black.

* * *

It was dark when Charlotte opened her eyes. It was dark, and oddly quiet. Not a sound disturbed the night. She turned on the painfully hard ground beneath her and realised she was not in her comfortable bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, a frown creasing her brow. It took her a moment to remember she had gone into the library and---! She sat up straight and her eyes flew open as she gazed around, but the gloom shrouded everything in deep shadows. The gaslamp had been extinguished.

She tried to remain calm, and quiet, and wait for her eyes to adjust to the surrounding dark. However, the moment she saw the gray outline of the extinguished gaslamp laying but a few feet away from her she lunged for it as if it were a lifeline. She tried to light it, but no spark came from its tap. It's reservoir coal must have been smothered when it fell.

Charlotte sat back with a sigh, chewing her bottom lip and feeling miserable. She had to relight the gaslamp but she did not fancy going up the narrow stairs without a light. She might trip or worse. And for the very first time, she was annoyed with her exquisite garments. Perhaps if she took the tea gown off... Her cheeks flushed red at the thought. Running around the house in an underdress was not very proper, even when there was nobody else there.

However, she could not remain here. How would Ellis find her? And the man! She looked in the direction where she had thought she had seen the dead man, but she saw only a darkened outline of what could be anything. She was sure she had seen a person. Was he dead? There had been a lot of blood. If he was dead, there was no harm, was there? Charlotte's eyes widened with shock. She mustn't hope that he was dead! That was a very, very terrible thing to do. But if he was not... had not... passed, and she wasn't proper... there would be talk!

She sat indecisive as she weighed her options. But then something wilful stirred within her otherwise gentle breast and a determined little scowl appeared across her fair features: this was not getting her anywhere! She resolutely unbuttoned the side fastenings of her tea gown and shrugged the garment from her narrow shoulders. She neatly folded the dress and put it down beside her before removing her crinolette and bustle too. She felt distinctly bare in nothing but her undergarments – the long chemise, corset and frilled drawers revealed an immodest amount of leg and left her arms and shoulders entirely unclothed!

Charlotte suppressed the urge to put her gown back on and swiftly grabbed the gaslamp. At least she could assent the stair more safely now. The metal steps were cold under her feet, even through her stockings. When had she taken off her little boots? She could not remember. No matter. She went up the stair as swiftly as she dared and made her way back to her fiancé's study.

It was darker in the study than before, for night had fallen in earnest. Charlotte could see the moon through the window. It was still open. She quickly walked to her fiancé's desk to find the match sticks. It took her three tries to light the gaslamp. It's shivering light seemed weaker than before. As she closed the gaslamp's glass compartment Charlotte remembered that the window was open. She quickly moved towards it, keeping herself behind the heavy satin curtains as much as possible as she closed and locked the pane, then drew the curtains closed in front of it. She walked back to the desk and picked up the gaslamp. The door to the library stood ajar, the darkness beyond everything but inviting.

'Do not fear the dark, dearest, be wary merely of what may hide within it.' Charlotte could almost hear Lord Nevermoor's soothing voice within her thoughts, as if he stood beside her. When had he told her that? The memory returned to her haltingly. It had been long ago. She had been frightened of the dark, of the creaks and groans of the old house, of what might hide under her bed, in her closet, stir in the shadows when she was not looking. She smiled faintly. He had been right, of course, there had been nothing there, then. And there was nothing here, now. Nothing but a dead man at the bottom of the library stairs. And dead men could not hurt her any more than the darkness could.

“Miss!”

Charlotte all but jumped out of her skin at the hissed call. She whirled around just in time to see her maid servant hurry into the study, Marshal at her heels. She was still wearing her winter coat, her hair damp and the dog's fur too. It must have rained, or was it snowing already?

“What happened, Miss?” Ellis inquired on shocked tones as she took in her young mistress' indecent state, eying her as if she was looking for some grievous injury.

“I-I am a-all right, Ellis,” Charlotte stammered as she tried to reassert control over her suddenly floundering nerves. “S-someone came into the h-house, a m-man, he's-.”

“Oh dear,” Ellis exclaimed as she quickly reached for Charlotte and steadied her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. Marshal mewled softly as he pressed his snout against Charlotte's hand in sympathy. “We're here now, what happened?” Ellis added kindly as she gently but decidedly directed Charlotte into the chair behind Lord Nevermoor's desk. She looked a little faint, and Ellis would not chance her falling and hurting herself.

Charlotte smiled as she rubbed the dog's snout, though her expression fell when she turned to look at Ellis. “A man broke into the house, he's dead. I found him dead in the library.”

Ellis looked aghast. “We must find a constable this instant, Miss!”

“No.” Charlotte frowned, as if surprised by her own decisiveness. “We must make certain none of my fiancé's belongings were taken or damaged,” she continued. “It will be no use to take up the constable's valuable time when we do not know everything that has happened.”

Ellis opened her mouth to protest but closed it the moment she realised what she was about to do. She nodded, instead. It was not her place to argue.

“Come,” Charlotte added as she rose from her seat and picked up the gaslamp once more. Marshal was at her side and she reached down to scratch him behind the ears, his presence giving her confidence.

Charlotte lifted up the gaslamp as she did her chin and resolutely strode back into the library, Marshal beside her and Ellis swiftly following after her. As they passed her fiancé's reading desk the gaslamp's light glinted off the elaborate time piece at the table's end. According to its gilded hands it was just before midnight, it's pendulum softly swinging as time ticked away.

The women went down the winding metal stair and between the high bookcases where the man laid, for a man indeed it was. Now that Charlotte knew, she was no longer frightened by it. However, her stomach twisted unpleasantly within her abdomen at the macabre sight.

The stranger laid close to the rear bookcases, crumpled upon the parquetry as if he had sagged down where he had stood. Had he meant to steal one of the precious volumes lining the back shelves? There was blood all around him, a great puddle of it that had spread across the floor. The thick, viscous fluid shimmered in the gaslamp's light like a puddle of crimson mud. The man laid curled upon his right side, his left arm clutched against his chest.

Charlotte tiptoed closer, staring at the dead man in horrified fascination. She had never... seen a dead person before. He did not look very dead. It was almost as if he were asleep. Marshal padded after her, sniffing. A light gasp escaped Charlotte as she hurriedly took a step backwards. The man was missing a hand! Undoubtedly the ragged stump of his wrist was the source of all the blood. Lord Nevermoor had once told her that there was as much as five litres of blood in a person. She had been highly sceptical then.

“Miss!” Ellis hissed uncomfortably as Charlotte leaned closer.

Charlotte frowned and bit her lower lip as the gaslamp's light fell across the man's face. He was a rough figure, dirty and undoubtedly low born by the looks of him. It gave her the overwhelming urge to clean everything up – the blood, the floor, everything - and by herself if she had to. Her little nose wrinkled in disgust. He smelled bad, too.

It was only then that Charlotte wondered what could have possibly happened to him. How had he wound up mortally hurt in her fiancé's library of all places? Terror suddenly seized her, clutching at her throat and robbing her of her breath. What if someone else had done this to him? What if there was another intruder? She closed her eyes and forced her rearing panic under control. The man had been alone. There had been only one set of footprints, after all. There was no one else.

Her little frown deepened as she glanced about the man's direct surroundings and noticed something peculiar about the bookcase directly behind him. It stood at an angle away from the bookcases aligned on either side of it. It stood at an angle, as if slightly ajar. Incredulity creased through her frown. How could a bookcase stand ajar?

She approached the bookcase cautiously but not without curiosity. When the light of the gaslamp glinted off metal she gasped in shock, her hand moving in front of her lips. There was a wall there, although that was not what had caused her fright. For within the center of the panel behind the bookcase laid an octagonal mechanism of sharp, overlapping sickle blades. The metal was stained and streaks of crimson ran down the dark wood of the bookcase.

“Miss, I don't think-.” Ellis started.

Charlotte stared at it, horrified and fascinated both. Why was there such a savage device attached to the panel? And what was it doing here, in her fiancé's library? There was no handle, no hinges, nothing to suggest it was mounted upon anything but a blind wall. It made no sense.

Charlotte leaned in closer, curious despite herself. She carefully reached out a finger. The moment she touched the broad metal face of a blade, they suddenly moved. Charlotte yanked her hand back immediately. However, they did not lash out to snap at her fingers as she had feared. Instead, the blades withdrew into the sides of the octagon with a rattle that jarred through the silent library.

The moment the blades had fully retracted, the back of the octagon slid forward. In the middle of the octagonal panel was an impression like the imprint of a hand. A left hand, by the look of it. It was very elaborate, all the folds and lines of the palm and fingers were present down to the smallest details. Yet right across the palm was a short, jagged line, deep and knotted like a scar. Could it be? Charlotte reached towards it. The palm was about the right size, the fingers the correct leng-.

“Miss, no!” Ellis exclaimed on an alarmed but hushed tone as she pulled Charlotte's hand away before she could press her palm against the imprint.

“Ellis,” Charlotte started as she pulled her hand from her maid servant's grasp, but stopped. The index and middle finger of the imprint appeared to be the same length. A hint of shocked confusion creased her brow. Surely that wasn't-? She glanced out of the corners of her eyes at Ellis. She didn't seem to have noticed. “I merely wished to compare,” Charlotte added on an entirely fabricated light tone.

“We shouldn't be here, Miss,” Ellis cautioned. She looked sceptical. “We mustn't disturb the master's privacy.”

“It's too late for that,” Charlotte quipped, and pressed her palm against the imprint of her fiancé's.

“No!” Ellis exclaimed, but it was too late. The moment Charlotte's palm touched the wood there was a flash like lightning, briefly illuminating the library in brilliant white light.

When Charlotte's vision cleared, the panel was gone. Instead, there was a doorway. And beyond it, a cast-iron winding stairs up identical to the one that had led them down. Marshal padded ahead and sat down by the stairs, thumping his tail lazily against the ground as he looked back at them.

“Miss,” Ellis started hesitantly, but Charlotte merely smiled, clearly pleased.

“Marshal is not afraid,” Charlotte remarked as she held up the gaslamp. The small room beyond the doorway was empty, the walls bare wood panels and the floor gray concrete. “And he's a smart dog. If he's not afraid, I am not afraid.”

Charlotte stepped into the room, the concrete cold under her feet. Marshal pressed his snout against her hand when she passed and she scratched him behind the ears. “Ellis?” she glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes, Miss,” Ellis replied as she followed her young mistress in a great deal more reluctantly. She eyed the bookcase as if she expected it to snap shut behind them, but nothing of the sort happened. “This is a bad place, Miss. I don't like it.”

“Don't be silly, Ellis,” Charlotte chuckled as she started up the stairs. “Come, Marshal.”

The stairway seemed to last forever. Round and round it went, higher and higher it led them. Charlotte had just begun to wonder if, in fact, it might go on forever, when she suddenly reached the top. She climbed the last steps as the light of her gaslamp illuminated the surrounding room. To Charlotte's surprise, she appeared to be standing in the middle of an old attic.

A little frown creased Charlotte's brow as she took in the dust covered clutter piled high all around her. Lord Nevermoor had always said the attic space could not be reached. She smiled broadly. She had found it! She patted Marshal happily as he appeared beside her and briefly licked her hand. Her fiancé would be so pleased when she told him she had found the way to the attic!

Marshal let out a low but equally cheerful bark in reply and padded into the attic. Charlotte followed in the dog's pawprints, taking in her curious surroundings. There must be so many interesting items stored here, treasures from long ago or far away – or both! She smiled from ear to ear, terribly pleased with her find. She would send a telegram to tell her beloved all about it first thing in the morning!

Charlotte halted abruptly when the steep stacks of old clutter suddenly gave way to... she was not quite sure what it was she was looking at. A study of sorts? Sure enough, there was a desk there. Multiple desks even, and all of them covered in strange looking glass and brass devices. Charlotte cautiously approached one of the desks, her eyes large with wonder as she looked at the peculiar items strewn around it.

Ellis suppressed a shiver as she tried to see as little of their surroundings as possible, hurrying after her young mistress. She did not like this place, whatever it was, she did not like it one bit. She crossed herself as she approached Charlotte, who stood with her back towards her, clearly intent upon something.

A curious little frown creased Charlotte's brow as she looked at the crystal sphere hanging amid a jumble of brass scales and glass tubes, seemingly floating in mid air. There did not appear to be any strings attached to it. As she reached for it somewhere below them a clock chimed.

* * *

Darkness. There had only, ever, been darkness. He had always felt comfortable with the night, with its pleasant gloom. It fit about his shoulders like a tailored cloak. Yet the inky blackness here was not the darkness of night or even an unilluminated room. This darkness was something else entirely.

 _This... this is... nothingness!_ he screamed. Or so he had meant to do, but no sound came from his lips. Merely the memory of his voice echoed within his mind.

At first he had thought he had been restrained - restrained so tightly that he had lost all feeling in his body, all ability to move. He had realised long ago that this was not the case. He had not been aware of his body in any sense for an eternity. Once, this had frightened him. He had panicked, his confusion whispering morbid suggestions. He had thought he had died. Foolishly, he had thought he had gone to heaven, but heaven had no place for him now. He had tried to imagine this was hell, but it was surprisingly quiet if it was. In fact, it was so quiet it was as if there was nothing there. Nothing at all. Nothing, except empty darkness. And his thoughts.

Twice, only twice, since the darkness began had he heard something other than his own thoughts. Both times, it had been him – his adversary, his true enemy. Blinding light had heralded his appearance, followed by pain that engulfed his mind like a thousand icy needles piercing his nonexisting skin. How he had wished for the total numbness to return in those moments.

His adversary had spoken to him – threatened him, taunted him - his voice so powerful that it had ground into him with every syllable, crunching his bones into powder one by one with his lies. Lies that he refused to believe, dared not think to be true. He had not hurt his beloved. He would never hurt her. They were lies. Lies!

And then, as suddenly as his adversary appeared, he would disappear. The pain, the voice, the light – all of it. It would cease and everything would cease to exist with it. Everything but his thoughts. Milling restlessly. Endlessly.

Once he had thought they had been friends. He had been so pleased to have found someone like him, something he had not thought possible. He had invited the slippery raptor into his house; dined with him, laughed with him. Long had they discussed the past, the present and the future. The future, especially, had interested his new friend.

Recalling this time now made him curse his idiocy – he should have seen it for what it was: a charade, a lie, a filthy trick to steal his precious. His sweetling. The thought of her filled him with a sadness he knew would never leave him. Anger boiled within him. He would make him pay. No, he would make him suffer. He would make him suffer as he had. He would make certain he would never have her again. Never. Ever.

He had always been thrilled by the hunt, a friend to shadow and gloom. He was the master of the night, always had been. And as decades had turned into centuries, the hunt had almost become too easy. People came to reside in their cities with their comforts, thinking themselves safe behind their walls of brick and glass. They had forgotten what lurked in the shadows, in the dark alleyways and forgotten places. A thing one should not be unaware of, a thing that one must not turn their back to. If only they remembered what their ancestors once knew: they are not the hunter, but the hunted.

He shook his head as if it were still there. His thoughts had wandered. He had lost track of time. He snorted derisively, a sound he now only heard within his mind. What a moronic idiom. If anything, time had lost track of him.

There was a sudden, odd sensation. A rattling of his senses, as if someone had suddenly grasped and shaken his shoulders. He could feel the pressure of slender hands on either side of his head. And he realised, he did not just feel them within his mind. He could feel their pressure... on his skull.

The pressure built and built until the darkness imploded with the mind obliterating noise of a thousand sheets of glass break simultaneously. He screamed as their shards buried themselves in his flesh and pain flared across his nerves after an eternity of numbness. And still the pressure built. It built until it became unbearable. Until it suddenly reversed with explosive force, yanking the glass from his tattered limbs. He laid curled up, cringing against the forces, against the pain. He could smell something, something new and fascinating. And oddly familiar. It reminded him of his sweetling. A curious frown creased his brow and he opened his eyes for the first time in decades.

It was dark around him, but not dark enough to rob him of his sight. He had little need for light. He rose slowly, his limbs aching as he stretched. He cracked his neck and back, the sensation of the popping vertebrae pleasingly real. His hands, arms, chest, thighs - his entire body was marred with old burns and fresh cuts. It hurt. It bled. He could not care less. He reached his hands up to touch his face, his chin, his cheeks, his nose. He drew in a deep breath and let it weeze out slowly. He felt real. Alive.

A girl laid crumpled all but beside him, her plain dress pooled around her. He cocked his head sideways, intrigued. He crouched at her side. He reached for her, slowly, deliberately, but then a sneer suddenly curled up his torn lips. She wasn't the one. He looked over her pitiful appearance. Of course she was not the one.

It was only then that he saw the other young woman. She sat slumped against the side of a desk, her shoulders haunched and her gaze turned away as if to shield herself. She wore merely undergarments but they were clearly tailored, their expensive silks slashed and their delicate laces torn as if by sharp implements. Her blonde curls tumbled around her sweet features in disarray.

A smile curled onto his battered features as he stalked closer, his bare feet making no sound upon the floor. He eyed her like a predator gauging a prey. “There you are,” he cooed softly, almost affectionately, as he leaned down and gathered her in his arms. “You did not hurt yourself, did you love?”

The girl was unconscious and did not respond. And yet a low, threatening growl came in reply to his words and an irritated scowl melted his smile away.

Marshal circled closer, baring his teeth at the naked, tattered stranger.

“Come on boy,” he remarked with feigned cheer as he shifted his hold on the young woman, freeing one hand to hold it out to the dog. “You remember me.”

Marshal growled again, but more hesitantly as he approached the man. He eyed the man uncertainly, his suddenly amicable emotions confusing.

“There, that's better, innit boy?” he continued as he rubbed the dog's head, firmly and affectionately. When Marshal hesitantly licked his hand he smiled broadly. “Come, you stupid animal,” he remarked cheerfully as he adjusted his hold on the young woman and walked away, his bare feet never stirring the dust.

* * *

He saw it read 'Charlotte' in elaborate stitching along the neck of her delicate night dress as he tucked the blankets securely around her and sat down at her side. He smiled as he lightly stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “So that's what he's calling you now...”

When the bedroom door opened he looked up sharply. Marshal growled. However, it was not who he had expected - quite the opposite. A woman in an exquisite wine red winter coat entered. She was tall and straight of limb with black hair and pale, regal features. Her blue eyes were subtly lined with coal, her lips touched with a hint of red. “I thought I might find you here,” she remarked with a smile full of familiarity but bereft of fondness.

He relaxed but fractionally when he recognised her. “What are you doing here?” he replied flatly.

Her smile broadened ever so slightly. “Bringing you clothing and cleaning up your mess, Alistair,” she answered as she held out a neatly wrapped brown parcel to him, clearly unaffected by his nudity. “As usual, I might add.”

“What do you want?” he demanded as he rose, stalking towards her and snatching the package from her hand.

“The same thing you want,” she replied without missing a beat, her smile never faltering as he stepped well into her private space.

“And what do I want, Regina?” he inquired, his eyes narrowing dangerously. They stood so close that their noses all but touched.

She chuckled, her gaze briefly flicking towards the sleeping young woman before meeting his. “You want to murder her,” she answered as she leaned so close she all but whispered into his ear: “Again. And Again. _And Again_.”

Alistair's jaw worked as if he were chewing his words before speaking them, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “I am not doing your dirty work, love,” he returned as he spat on the floor beside them.

Regina merely smiled and Alistair shoved her aside, pushing past her and stalking out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a force as if he had meant to break its hinges.

Regina chuckled at his little tantrum, clearly pleased. “Oh, Alistair, you can't help yourself,” she said softly, an amused smile flitting across her flawless features. “It's what you _do_.”

“Men are so predictable, dear,” Regina continued as she glanced down at the young woman soundly asleep amid the comfortable sheets. “You can always count on them to act exactly the way you expect them to.” Even asleep from exhaustion in the wake of sheer terror, the little bitch looked as sweet as a porcelain angel. She was precious, there was no denying it. She always was. Every time.

A derisive sneer twisted Regina's features as she reached down and brushed a curl from Charlotte's eyes. “Pity.”

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought on it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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